5 Time Draco Malfoy Made Pie
by JenniGellerBing
Summary: The first time, he thought it would be easy.  DMHP, Epilogue, What Epilogue?  Slash, but not graphic.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the first part of the first fic I've written in a long time. Dedicated to Nadine, my inspiration!

The very first time Draco Malfoy ever made pie, he thought it would be as simple as making a potion. Harry watched from the doorway of the kitchen of their flat, smiling indulgently as Draco scurried to and from the pantry, muttering to himself and laying out ingredients neatly on the counter nearest the oven.

"Snape would be proud of how orderly this all is," Harry said.

"Right, I'm sure, " Draco snapped. " 'Oh Draco, I so hoped you would use your consummate prowess for potions to grow up to be Potter's housewife.' He's rolling in his grave, I tell you."

"Well, you sure are fit for a housewife," Harry said, smacking Draco lightly on the bum.

"Keep that up and there will be no dinner for you tonight," Draco said.

"Is that what you're making? Dinner?" Harry asked, peering around Draco at the scroll floating in midair above the sink. Draco reached out and snatched it away, stuffing it into the pocket of his trousers.

"None of your business. Off with you!" Draco said, shooing Harry out the door. "You're going to be late. I need peace. Out of my kitchen!"

"Your kitchen now, is it? Does that mean I don't have to clean it ever again?"

"Out!" Draco stuck his tongue out as Harry tossed a handful of powder into the hearth and stepped into the Floo. As soon as Harry was out of sight, presumably ensconced in his office in the Auror department at the Ministry for the next eight hours, Draco released the slightly crumpled scroll from his pocket and set it to floating again. He peered at the directions and then dug into the pantry in the corner and pulled out what looked like a slightly moldy loaf of rye bread – Harry's least favorite. He pulled out his wand and waved it at the bread, removing the Glamour that he'd placed on it the day before, and revealed a mid-sized, bright orange pumpkin.

Draco carried the pumpkin back to the scroll and set it down. "How in the bloody hell does this thing work?" he murmured, looking down at the pumpkin. He'd seen pumpkins, obviously, and he'd had pumpkin juice and Pumpkin Pasties and plenty of other pumpkin treats, but he had never really imagined how one took the giant pumpkins in the Great Hall around Halloween and turned them into juice, or pasties, or, as was necessary today, pie.

Harry really liked pumpkin pie. Draco had never even tasted pumpkin pie until he and Harry had begun this whatever-it-was that they were to each other, and though he found that he still preferred a slice of German Chocolate Cake or perfectly-carmelized Crème Brule, Draco could understand why Harry liked pumpkin pie. What he could not understand was the first step in the recipe that Molly Weasley had so kindly owled him the day before.

"Step one," the recipe read out in Mrs. Weasley's voice as Draco prodded it. "Using your wand, carve the pumpkin around the stem, leaving enough room to reach in and remove the pumpkin innards."

"The pumpkin _what_?" Draco demanded of the recipe. The recipe merely hung there in mid-air a bit tauntingly, waiting for him to perform surgery on the pumpkin on his cutting board. Draco swallowed hard and began to carve.

Harry stepped out of the Floo at his flat that night and into pitch blackness. He pulled out his wand and called out, his voice a bit strangled, "Draco? Draco, are you here?"

"In the kitchen," Draco's replied, his voice full of despair.

"What's going on? Are you all right? What is this?" Harry kept his wand out. The room felt hot, and stuffy, and full of the scent of something sickly sweet mixed with something burnt.

"Oh I'm fine, just battling a fire I can't even _see_ because of this bloody Peruvian Darkness Powder – "

"A _fire_?" Harry gasped, putting his hands out to find the wall. "What're you talking about? This is Darkness Powder? _Atrum__eradico!__"_ The living room and kitchen suddenly filled with light. Harry bolted for the kitchen and felt his jaw drop.

Draco was cowering in the corner of the kitchen furthest from the oven, where a large pan was burning with hot, red-white flames. He, along with half of the kitchen, was covered with something sticky and orange. Draco's hair was standing on end as if he'd run his hands through it several times, and one of his sleeves looked singed.

"What in Merlin's name is going on?" Harry asked, half horrified and half amused.

Draco didn't answer. He shot a few angry _aguamenti_ spells at the oven, which soon subdued the flames, leaving only choking smoke filling the kitchen. Harry opened the window above the sink to let out the smoke and then leaned against the counter, crossing his arms while Draco inspected the oven hesitantly.

"Draco," he said patiently, biting the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh. "Are you… baking?"

"I _was_ baking," Draco snarled. "And doing a bang-up job of it, too, until I realized I'd forgotten the cinnamon after it was already in the oven, so I grabbed it and just tossed it in. Which would have been fine, if _someone_hadn't left that bloody Weasley product in the pantry!" By this point in the tirade, Draco's voice had gone a bit squeaky. Harry would have found it adorable if the Slytherin's eyes hadn't been blazing. "What bloody _tosser_ would leave _Darkness__Powder_ in a bloody pantry where anybody could mistake it for cinnamon?"

"That would be me, I suppose," Harry said, verging on irritation that Draco had somehow managed to blow up their kitchen – for, on closer inspection, at least the oven and much of the counter space were probably a total loss – and yet still blame it on Harry.

"Turns out Peruvian Instant Darkness doesn't mix particularly well with – nevermind," Draco said. "I'll just clean up then, shall I?" He began to shoot jets of water at various messy spots in the kitchen and set scrubbing spells on the inside of the oven.

Harry watched warily from the doorway as Draco stomped around. He took a step forward and felt something squish under his foot. He peered at the floor.

"Draco, what is this?" he asked, puzzled. "What were you – " He stopped, looking at the frustration on Draco's face – frustration mixed with a smudge of flour. Harry stepped forward and reached up to Draco's hair and pulled out a pumpkin seed.

"Were you baking a pumpkin pie?" he asked.

"I _was_," Draco muttered. "Not anymore, I'm not."

"For me?"

"No, Potter, for the house elves – oh wait, we haven't got any to clean this bloody mess, have we – "

But Harry cut him off with an enthusiastic kiss. It was just the kind of kiss Draco had hoped to receive after presenting Harry with a delicious and well-made pumpkin pie, not after needing Harry to rescue him from his own kitchen. But as Harry grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall and towards the bedroom, Draco decided that perhaps the night would still be worth one burnt – well, slightly more than burnt – pumpkin pie.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for reading! And a big thank you to Nadine, my lovely inspiration and beta! This fic is really a character and relationship study for me, and I hope you enjoy it!

5 Times Draco Malfoy Made Pie

Part 2 – Stress Baking

"So, I'm going on assignment tomorrow," Harry announced as he toppled backwards onto his bed.

Draco stopped riffling through the overcrowded closet for a moment and poked his head out. "Assignment? You?"

It was unusual for Harry to go on assignments. He was an Auror, and a top-notch one, to be sure, but ever since his defeat of Voldemort several years earlier, the amount of danger he found himself in daily had plummeted. Draco knew Harry had been chomping at the bit for years to do real work for MLE – his last several "assignments" had involved such offenses as accidental underage magic, exploding tea kettles and crups that had never had their forked tails snipped. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Gawain Robards, and the rest of the Ministry tended to keep Harry around the office, where he could talk to the press and shake hands with important officials from abroad and generally just remain the Saviour of the Wizarding World; it was generally thought that he had done quite enough for all of wizardkind and that he deserved a nice rest, thank you very much, and Draco was inclined to agree.

"Yeah," Harry said. "I've been bothering Kingsley for ages, and we got some intelligence about some dark wizards in the North, and he said Ron and I could take the assignment. Fantastic, right?"

Draco turned back to the closet, where he was searching for his favorite dark blue jumper. He knew he'd placed it on the third shelf, but all he could find now was several of Harry's Weasley sweaters and one of his own, silver with a dark green "D", which he'd blushingly accepted from a beaming Mrs Weasley at Christmas a few months before. He didn't want Harry to see his face as he replied, "Fantastic. Yeah. Definitely."

"We sent a team up yesterday and they couldn't even break through the wards, but I reckon Ron and I ought to be able to, and Hermione's sending some curse-breaking information through tomorrow morning before I leave – we haven't a clue what's going on, and it's this great monstrous house where supposedly there's some old warlocks holed up in, and Hermione says the wards they've got up now are right dangerous, and - "

"Sounds exciting," Draco interrupted, sticking his head further back into the fairly messy closet. "Will you be gone long, then?"

"Dunno," Harry said. "What're you doing in there?"

"Looking for a bloody jumper because it's bloody freezing in here," Draco snarled. "But all of this nonsense of yours is in my bloody way! Honestly, Molly's a sweet lady, but isn't ten itchy jumpers enough?" By the end, Draco was rending a balled-up red-and-gold striped jumper in his hands and nearly shouting.

Harry appeared at the closet door. "Draco? Are you all right? Why are you yelling about my sweaters? I thought you liked the one you got this year."

Draco sighed and tossed the jumper on the floor. "I do. Really. It's nothing."

"Nothing about the sweaters at least," Harry said, pursing his lips in an obnoxiously knowing way. Draco frowned.

"I just – I don't really like the idea of you going on some unknown mission to Merlin knows where and coming back Merlin knows when, all right?" he said, striding past Harry and into the bedroom.

"You don't like me doing my job? I'm not really sure what you want me to say to that," Harry said, narrowing his eyes.

"Look, I know it sounds incredibly selfish – "

"Yeah, it does," Harry said. "You don't want me to be with my team on an important mission? You want me to stay at the Ministry while everyone else, my best mate included, walks into danger, so I can stay home with you, what, and cook you breakfast in bed and give you massages? Do you even know me at all, Draco?"

"Honestly," Draco said, sneering and knowing he was about to deal Harry a low blow, "I'm surprised they're even letting you go. It's been years since you've really been in the field, I can't imagine you're trained up for it. And what if you get a black eye or something? Who'll be on next week's cover of _Witch__Weekly?_"

"Fuck you," Harry said. "You're a right arsehole, you know that?" He turned on his heel and stormed out of the bedroom. A few moments later, Draco heard the Floo whirl to life, and Harry was gone.

"Fine," Draco snarled at the empty room. "That's just fine." He stormed around the flat all night, waiting for Harry to return, picking things up and then putting them back, kicking the sofa once or twice, and finally making himself a strong martini and lying down in bed fully clothed. When the Floo spun to life again past midnight, Draco burrowed under the covers and closed his eyes.

Harry quietly padded into the room. Draco heard him undressing and brushing his teeth, and finally sliding under the sheets on the opposite side of the bed.

"Draco? You awake?" Draco didn't respond. He tried to make his breathing sound even; he had no intention of providing Harry the satisfaction of knowing he had been awake waiting, of letting Harry talk and wheedle and kiss his way into some sort of apology and forgiveness, even if that resulted in a make-up shag. After a few moments of heavy, hesitant silence, Harry shifted in bed for a moment and then finally stilled. It was a while before Draco heard the heavy breathing and light snores that told him that Harry was asleep.

Harry was gone by the time Draco woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed from being up most of the night. He read the _Prophet_ over tea, replied to an owl from his solicitor, and tidied up the kitchen. He felt trapped, and anxious, and a bit like he couldn't quite take a full breath, and he didn't know why. He was _not_ worried about Harry, that much was certain. He was merely… curious. That was all. Curiosity was a perfectly valid reason to send an owl off to Mandy Brocklehurst, Harry's personal secretary, demanding that she tell him exactly where Harry was and exactly when he would be back.

An hour after Draco sent his grey owl off to the Ministry, it returned with a terse notice from Mandy, reminding him that she was not permitted to talk about Mr Potter's whereabouts while he was engaged in official Ministry of Magic business. "Isn't that just peachy," Draco muttered, incinerating the scroll with a flick of his wand. He paced around the kitchen, cursing Harry and Mandy Brocklehurst and the entire Ministry of Magic for keeping him waiting. After several minutes of pacing, a faint memory of Harry talking about how Ron would be on the mission with him floated into Draco's head, and he knew where to go.

"Do you know where Potter is?"

"Draco," Hermione said placidly, putting down her quill as Draco slammed the door to her office behind him. "Lovely to see you, too."

"Come off it, Granger," Draco said. "Don't avoid the question. Weasley's with him, so you must know where they are." He threw himself down in the chair in front of Hermione's desk, trying to look calmer than he felt.

"Didn't Harry tell you they were going on assignment?" Hermione asked, looking politely puzzled.

"Of course he did," Draco said. "But then we – well, then we had a row, and he left, and I never found out the details." Draco could feel his cheeks coloring. He loathed throwing himself at Hermione's feet, begging for information about where Harry was, but it had only been six hours and he couldn't stand waiting. What if the mission was, Merlin forbid, a week long? He would probably go nutters after a few days and start talking to the mirror in the loo.

"I see," Hermione said. "Well, Draco, you know I can't tell you where they are, but I promise I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything back from Ron." She leaned forward and looked at Draco. "Would you like to talk about the fight you and Harry had?"

Draco was about to snap "No" and storm angrily from her office, but the honest look in her eyes gave him pause. "Not really," Draco mumbled, ducking his head. "It was – well, I was a bit of a prat."

"Really," Hermione said dryly.

"Yes, really," Draco said. "If you must know, though, it was because… it was because I was worried, all right? Merlin, the humiliation." He leaned back and clasped one hand over his eyes melodramatically. How had his life come to this? Here we was, a grown man, a bloody Slytherin, and he was sitting in Hermione Granger's office whinging about how he was worried about Harry Bleeding Potter. "Don't you ever worry about Weasley?"

"Of course I do," Hermione said gently. "But it's his job. I worry constantly when he's gone, but it's gotten easier. I know you're not used it because Harry has hardly left London lately, but this is really important to him, Draco, and I know he really wants your support."

"Merlin, what are you, our relationship counselor?" Draco asked. "Does he talk to you all the time about what an unsupportive, dreadful prick I am, then?"

"No," Hermione says. "In fact, he seems absurdly happy with you the vast majority of the time. It's slightly disgusting, to be quite honest." Draco opened his eyes to see Hermione smirking at him.

"Can't be more disgusting than you and Weasley," he said, smirking back. "All right. All right, Granger. You can't tell me anything, I get it. But if you do hear anything, and I should expect Potter back in a shoebox, I would appreciate an owl or something."

"Of course."

"Well – thanks. For talking. And everything. Right. Merlin. Gryffindors." Draco stood up to leave.

"Draco?" Hermione called out as he reached the door. He paused. "If you would be willing to take a _Gryffindor__'__s_ advice, I would suggest you do something to keep yourself busy at home while he's gone. That's what I do. It helps with the worrying."

"Busy how?" Draco asked.

"Well, you could try mending clothes by hand – "

"As in, without magic? Muggle-borns, honestly."

" – And I know that Molly bakes all types of sweets when she's worried about Ron and the rest of them, she says it keeps her sane."

_Baking_. An interesting idea. "Right. Thanks for the advice, Gra – Hermione."

Hermione smiled. "Any time, Draco."

When the Floo was flooded with fire around 11 pm the next day and Harry stepped out of the hearth and into his flat, it was strangely quiet. Harry wondered where Draco was; for a moment, he was gripped with fear that the other man had left and taken a suitcase with him.

Bracing himself, he walked into the kitchen and breathed a sigh of relief. It was an utter mess. There was flour everywhere, strewn on the counters, in the sink, on the floor; pecans and blueberries and the pits of cherries littered the small kitchen table; several scrolls hovered around the room, one of them humming what sounded oddly like a Celestina Warbeck tune. And in the middle of it all, one Draco Malfoy was fast asleep, his head resting on the table. Scattered around him, all buzzing with the warmth of a long-lasting heating charm, were six pies.

"Draco?" Harry said quietly, putting his hand on Draco's shoulder. "All right?"

"Harry?" Draco mumbled, opening his eyes. Harry smiled for a moment, before –

"You _prat_ – no owl – nothing – could have been _dead_," Draco growled, launching himself into Harry's arms. He began to run his arms up and down Harry's back as if reassuring himself that the other man was all in one piece.

"Well, I would've owled if I was dead," Harry teased, stilling Draco's hands with his own.

"I could hardly sleep, I didn't even know what to do with myself… " Draco trailed off, his face pressed into Harry's shoulder. "Hate you."

"Draco Malfoy, were you worried about me?"

"I don't understand the question and I won't answer it," Draco replied haughtily, finally pulling away from Harry and crossing his arms. Harry's face twitched as if he were about to smile.

"What in Merlin's name is all of this?" Harry asked, motioning around the kitchen.

"Stress baking," Draco said. "That's what Molly calls it, at least. She sent me loads of recipes after I owled her – I thought maybe, you know, _if_ you came home, you bloody prat, you might like to have, I don't know, a pie."

"So you made six of them?" Harry said.

"I had nothing else to do!" Draco exclaimed. "Look, I – I guess I was trying to say that I – I'm sorry. That I wasn't more supportive, before. That wasn't right of me."

"No, it wasn't," Harry agreed. Before Draco could open his mouth, he continued, "But I didn't stop and think about how it might worry you when I go on assignment. I was too busy being glad to finally be _doing_ something, and I just expected you would be glad too, but – I guess, you know, I see how Hermione and Molly get when we leave and – "

"Don't you dare compare me to those women," Draco said, but his voice was light and Harry knew he was joking.

" – And I thought that _maybe_ you might worry too. And that's all I was going to say," Harry said. He reached out and smoothed down Draco's hair, which was mussed from the way he'd been sleeping on the table. Draco grabbed his hand and then pulled him in for a fierce kiss.

"Was worried," he admitted, his lips moving against Harry's mouth.

"I know," Harry said, sighing and slipping one arm around Draco's waist. "So… can I have a slice of pie?" And they spent the rest of the night sampling each of the five delicious pies (and one radish-flavored pie, a recipe straight from the books of Luna Lovegood) that Draco had stayed up all night making.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has favorited this story or my penname. I really appreciate it – you have all made me smile so much! I would really love to hear from any of you in reviews! As a writer who hasn't contributed to the fandom in about four years, any positive or negative comments would be VERY much appreciated as I try to get back into the groove! Still dedicated to my lovely best friend Nadine, my pie-loving inspiration.

Part 3 - Definitions

They had all had one drink too many, Draco thought in retrospect as he watched Harry lunge across the table and slam his fist into Ron Weasley's jaw. Just one drink less, and this probably could have been avoided. Or one drink more, he mused, and then Harry would've missed Ron entirely and possibly even fallen out of the booth he was sharing with Draco, Hermione and the aforementioned recipient of the well-placed punch. Either way, the number of drinks they'd all had this night was the exact wrong number.

It was Friday, and Fridays usually meant that Harry had plans to go out with his Gryffindor friends while Draco went to visit his mother, or go out shopping, or even just stay in their flat with a martini and some Muggle movie on the telly. The telly capitivated Draco; he had never seen one growing up, but he adored it now, though he hated watching anything with Harry, who had a tendency to talk right over the characters.

Tonight, however, had been different. As Harry arrived home after work, finding Draco lounging on the couch in his new set of work robes, he asked, "So, would you like to come for dinner and drinks tonight?"

"With Hermione and the Weasel?" Draco asked.

"With Hermione and _Ron_, yes," Harry said, tossing himself down on the couch next to Draco. "Honestly, I've asked you – "

"Old habits die hard, Potter," Draco said with a smirk, lifting his feet off the ground and placing them in Harry's lap. "What do they want me there for? I thought tonight was a Gryffindor-only party, as usual."

"You know you're always invited," Harry protested, absent-mindedly rubbing one of Draco's feet. "But Hermione owled and specified that she'd like you to come. It'll just be the four of us, and Hermione said she wants to see how things are going at the Ministry.

"Well, as you must know, the Floo Network Authority is an absolutely thrilling place to be employed, day and night," Draco said dryly. "Regulating the simplest and least dangerous type of magical transportation is an important and exciting task which I undertake each day with a smile." He smiled sarcastically.

"Don't you dare say that in front of Hermione, you know she pulled strings to get you in. And it's just a foot in the door, with time – "

"I know, I know, with time they'll start to trust me even though I'm Death Eater spawn, and I'll get promoted and get out of the cubicle and run the whole bloody place, and I ought to be grateful to Hermione for even getting me a job when no one else in the Wizarding world would have me. How's that, then?"

"That about covers it," Harry said. "Honestly, though. I think she feels bad when you're, er, left out, and she wants you to come tonight. And so do I."

Draco sighed. "All right then. I've dined with worse company. How bad can it be?"

The answer, it turns out, was "quite bad." The meal started out fine, as Hermione questioned Draco about his work at the FNA. She expressed an absurd amount of interest considering how boring the department was, while Ron listened a bit impatiently, clearly eager to change the subject as soon as possible.

The quality of Draco's relationships with almost everyone in Harry's life had improved considerably since they had started living together a year earlier: Mrs. Weasley had taken to Draco quite quickly, needing only the knowledge that he made Harry happy to welcome him into the fold, and now that Draco no longer felt jealous that a Muggle-born was beating him in classes, he and Hermione had forged something suspiciously similar to a friendship on the basis of more than a few intellectual interests in common.

Ron, on the other hand, had been the most put out when his best mate announced that he was moving in with their former collective enemy. Draco couldn't help but feel that Weasley still held a grudge from their days at Hogwarts, and he didn't entirely blame him; he met Ron's distant not-quite-hostility with a cool politeness of his own. This was a less than ideal situation, seeing as how Draco was distinctly involved with Ron's closest friend, but it seemed to be going all right as long as they only spent time together in small doses.

Tonight's dinner-and-drinks plan, however, was not quite a small dose. After they'd finished their Chinese food in Muggle London, the four of them made their way to the Leaky Cauldron, where they sat in a small booth near the back. Harry and Ron ordered rounds of ale and talked about Quidditch at an increasingly louder volume, while Draco and Hermione sipped martinis and discussed life at the Ministry under Kingsley Shacklebolt.

The worst fights always seemed to start with the smallest offenses, and tonight was no exception. Near one o'clock, the bartender brought Draco's tab and set it on the table. Draco reached for it, but Harry snatched it up first, murmuring, "I've got it," and reaching into his pocket to rummage for a few Galleons.

"Well there's a surprise," Ron muttered in what he may have drunkenly thought was a quiet voice.

"What was that?" Harry said, freezing in the act of setting several coins on the table.

"Oh, nothing," Ron said airily, crossing his arms and staring up at the ceiling.

"Didn't sound like nothing," Harry said.

"Harry, he didn't – " Hermione began.

"No, Hermione, I want to hear what Ron said," Harry said, his voice raising.

"I said," Ron drawled, "_Well,__there__'__s__a__surprise_. As in, you paying for Malfoy – what a surprise."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Harry asked. Draco felt his cheeks flush, torn between anger and humiliation; he had a feeling he knew what Weasley was referring to.

"I just find it interesting that you always pay for him, that's all," Ron said. "You know, what with the timing of you moving in together and all, right after he lost the manor and the family fortune. Seems a bit convenient, doesn't it?"

"Ron," Hermione said warningly, placing a hand on her boyfriend's arm.

"Is that what you think, Weasley?" Draco asked quietly. "I'm here with Potter for his money?"

"I'm not sure what I think, all I'm saying is that the timing was interesting," Ron said. "I'm not the only one who thinks so."

"No, you're not, the _Prophet_ had a day of it, didn't they?" Harry growled. "And we all know what a trusted news source the _Prophet_ is."

"Look, all I'm saying is that sometimes it's a bit hard to swallow," Ron said. "It's not that I think he's a Death Eater, or anything – "

"He's as much of a Death Eater as I am and you know it," Harry said coolly.

"I know he was cleared by the courts and all, that's not what I'm saying – "

"I'm right here, you know," Draco interrupted.

" – but it's still a bit strange, isn't it? And Harry, you know, we all thought you'd be marrying Ginny until _he_ came along, and it's not that he's a bloke, mate, that's not it at all, it's just that I just don't know why it's _Malfoy_, of all the blokes out there! Don't you remember how he was in school?" Ron's face was bright red, his words slightly slurred, and Draco looked at the horrified look on Hermione's face, the hard lines around Harry's eyes, and the empty mugs of ale on the table with a bad feeling rising in his chest.

"We were kids," Harry said quietly. "It was a different world."

"Not that different, mate. Not that different."

"Is this really how you feel, Ron? All this time you've been telling me that you accept him, that you're happy for me, has that just been lies?"

"No – yes – I don't know," Ron said. "It's just that - you know, Harry, it doesn't help that this – this whatever is going on between you two doesn't even have a name. Don't you know what people say? Don't you think that's hard for us to explain to people? I'm supposed to be your best mate and I haven't got a bloody idea what you're doing. What am I supposed to say? Oh, yeah, right, he's got Malfoy living with him, I assume they're shagging but who knows anything for sure, it's not a big deal."

"You know, I don't really want to hear this," Harry said, reaching for his jacket and putting his hand on Draco's arm. "I've heard more than enough. Hermione, have a good night."

"Oh, so now you're choosing him over me? The _ferret?_" Ron cried.

Draco reached to pull out his wand – not to use it, he assured himself, just to show that he might – but Harry beat him to it, lunging across the table and punching Ron square in the jaw. Hermione gasped, and Draco felt his jaw drop.

Ron blinked, staring at Harry disbelievingly. A moment later, he seemed to recover; with a furious roar, he stood up and returned Harry's punch with an off-center one of his own, just grazing Harry's temple and sending his glasses flying off.

"No, don't!" Hermione cried, but it was too late – a moment later, the two wizards were brawling right on the floor of the Leaky Cauldron. Draco barely knew what he was seeing. There was Ron's bloody lower lip, a bruise forming below Harry's left eye, an elbow connecting loudly with Ron's stomach – Draco was rather proud of Harry for that one, he had to admit – but after a second's hesitation, Draco was forcibly pulling Harry away from Ron as Hermione shrieked and pulled uselessly at Ron's elbow. Neither man had done much damage to the other, but Draco didn't want to give them another shot; at any rate, the bartender was on his way over, and he knew Harry would regret this in the morning even more if the scuffle managed to make the front page of the _Daily__Prophet_.

Holding tightly to Harry's arm and muttering about "bloody heathens," Draco gave Hermione a small wave and dragged Harry out of the Cauldron and into the street.

"Let me in there, let me go!" Harry said, trying to wrench himself out of Draco's grasp.

"It's not worth it," Draco said, shoving Harry into the back of a taxi and directing the driver to their flat. "In about ten minutes you're going to start feeling where he hit you and realize you wouldn't have won that fight anyway."

By the time Draco had healed Harry's bruises and pushed him towards the bedroom an hour later, the other man's mutterings about his "_supposed_best mate" and "bloody traitor" had died down and he had started to thoughtfully rub the spot on his temple where Ron had hit him. Draco undressed and climbed into bed silently as Harry twisted and turned beside him. He lay staring at the ceiling, his mind whirling with what Ron had said.

"Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"You awake?"

"Obviously."

Silence. Harry adjusted his pillow, groaning a little. "I'm sorry about tonight."

"You haven't got anything to be sorry for," Draco said. "Not to me, at least."

"You're saying Ishould be apologizing to Ron?"

Draco sighed. "Honestly? I think so. You swung first, Harry. Yes, he was provoking you, and I'm not saying I wouldn't have done the same, and as much as you must know it kills me to admit anything positive about Weasley, especially after the things he said, but – well, I highly doubt he ever would have hit you over the course of that argument, and I'm a bit surprised you hit him. Yes, I think you ought to apologize. Perhaps we could give him some sort of food-based gift, I know he always likes those. He'll probably forget that you socked him in the eye right off if we let him stuff his face first."

"He called you ferret," Harry mumbled.

"I call him 'Weasel' most of the time, and you've never hit me over it. He's an idiot, and he was even more of an idiot tonight, but he was also drunk. You already knew he had a problem with me living here, and you never let it bother you before. Why tonight? What the hell happened in there?"

Harry didn't say anything for a moment. He fidgeted with the blanket and gently massaged his tender knuckles.

"You've got something to say," Draco said. He felt strangely anxious and couldn't put his finger on why.

"Well," Harry said. "What Ron said about – about you and I. About how what we're doing here doesn't have a name, and about what people say…"

"You're worried about what people are saying?" Draco asked, feeling his anxiety transform into something like panic in the pit of his stomach.

"God, no," Harry said. "You know I don't give half an arse what the _Prophet_ or anyone says. That's not what I'm saying. I'm talking about how – well – maybe he has a point. About nobody knowing exactly what we are."

Draco was quiet for a moment. "I didn't think it mattered. I thought we understood, and that was enough."

"Is it? I mean – do we? Do we understand? I think that's why I got so angry, Draco. Sometimes I don't even know what we are."

Draco rolled over until he was looking at the side of Harry's face. Harry had his eyes scrunched closed, his hands balled in the sheets at his side.

"I guess I don't either," he said. "But I know that this – works. At first I thought, well, we don't want to tear each other apart anymore, but tearing each other's clothes off sounds great – and then I thought, well, sleeping in the same bed is quite nice, why not do that full time? Simple enough. And then I realized I was worried about you when you weren't there like some kind of soppy teenage girl, and I wanted to do all these stupid little things that I thought might make you happy, and Merlin, Potter, are you going to make me go on? Please spare me the humiliation."

"Draco Malfoy, are you saying that you have some kind of feelings for me?" Harry perched himself on one of his elbows to look Draco in the eye. His voice was teasing, but Draco knew he was more serious than he seemed.

"I guess I do," Draco said. "And I don't feel like we need any of those words – boyfriend, partner, any of that bollocks – just so we make sense to everyone else. None of that makes any difference when you know that I bloody well love – that I – that I…" Draco trailed off, his face flushing. Malfoys did _not_ say those three words first. They absolutely did not. It must have been the martinis from earlier, or the somewhat mesmerizing way that the streetlight from outside the window was catching Harry's eyes, because months and months had gone by and Draco had avoided using that dreaded phrase because Mafoys simply _did__not__say__it__first_. Especially to Potters.

But suddenly Draco forgot that, because the Potter lying next to him was grinning from ear to ear, and then he was planting sloppy kisses all over his face and then he was murmuring in his ear, "You arse," and by the time they spoke again the next morning, Harry had forgotten all about his anger at Ron. He was, in fact, rather grateful that his best mate's drunken idiocy had led to a certain discussion between he and his whatever-they-were.

And when a very shame-faced Ron Weasley arrived at the door to the Potter-Malfoy flat the next morning, hungover, sporting an impressive black eye and ready to ask forgiveness for "acting like a git, because really, mate, I haven't got any problem with you and Mal – you and Draco, and I know I should be more supportive and I'm really doing my best – old habits die hard, is all," Harry welcomed him in with a brisk hug, apologized for throwing the first punch, and led him to the kitchen, where Draco had Ron's favorite, a chocolate-and-boysenberry flavoured pie, all ready for the three of them to share.


End file.
